


Dinner Conversation

by MizJoely



Series: Conversations [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Mild Angst, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 16:13:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1434682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A follow up to "Conversations With A Dead Detective" - Molly and Sherlock join their friends in a celebratory dinner at Angelo's, only of course resentments are still simmering beneath the surface.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dinner Conversation

“That dress suits you. Why don’t you wear it more often?”

Molly blushed at Sherlock’s comment. They were currently riding in the back of the cab he’d summoned, headed for a place called Angelo’s to meet up with John Watson, Greg Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson (did she know the older woman’s first name or not, hard to remember with Sherlock giving her compliments even when voiced in as critical a manner as that one had been).

“Because it’s one I only wear for special occasions. Like going out to dinner with my b…”

“Don’t say it,” Sherlock growled, turning to glare at her.

This time, his shift in mood didn’t faze her. “Don’t say what?” she asked, widening her eyes in a deliberate parody of innocence. As if he didn’t know what she was about to say…and as if she hadn’t been about to say it just to tweak him.

“I despise the term,” he replied with a sniff. “I am hardly a boy, and far beyond a friend at this point in our relationship.”

“Well, then, what _can_ I call you?” she asked, still smiling to herself. 

This conversation could have been unbearably awkward, considering the mess he’d made of her emotions back in her flat less than fifteen minutes ago, but Molly was still riding the high of knowing that she and Sherlock were in a _committed, exclusive relationship_. His words.

Oh, and the fact that he’d told her they were going to have sex later that night didn’t hurt, either. It had been a long two years since their first – and so far, only – time together. She was really looking forward to sleeping with him in a proper bed, exploring that lovely, lean body of his a little more closely, and having him become more intimately acquainted with hers at the same time…

“Molly Elizabeth Hooper, what would your mother say if she knew you were thinking such things?” Sherlock interrupted her, his voice a faux-shocked drawl. 

She flushed and dropped her eyes, wishing he wouldn’t keep doing that to her – knowing exactly what she was thinking no matter how private (and slightly embarrassing considering their location in the backseat of a cab, with the driver clearly listening to every word they said). But then, he wouldn’t be Sherlock Holmes, the man she’d fallen in love with, the man who was now her…what? What should she call him if she couldn’t use the “B” word?

“Does everything have to have a label?” Drat, there he was, doing it again. Seeming to read her mind. She supposed it was something she was going to have to learn to live with…not that she was contemplating living with Sherlock, of course, that was putting the cart well ahead of the horse, but still…a girl could dream.

“No, everything doesn’t have to have a label,” was all she said, somewhat primly. “It’s just that it makes things easier for us mere mortals to understand.”

He let out a short back of laughter, either at her tone or her terminology or, perhaps, both. It warmed her from head to toe, hearing Sherlock laughing at something she said – laughing not at her but with her. Not that he'd spent a great deal of time doing either, of course, since he mostly sneered at or ignored her weak attempts at humor in the past, but still…it was another nice, unexpected change.

Of course, she'd never have felt easy enough in his presence before now to deliberately try and tweak him like this, either. Another first. Another _good_ first.

Speaking of firsts…he reached over and took her hand in his, smiling at her surprised expression but making no comment. She hesitated only a moment before scooting closer to him and resting her head on his shoulder. If he could reach out she could do the same, and if he cared what the cabbie thought, well, she certainly didn't.

He didn't pull away, didn't comment…and didn't release her hand.

They spent the remainder of the cab ride in contented (in Molly's case, certainly, and she hoped it was the same for him) silence.

oOo

Molly stood on the sidewalk outside the restaurant while Sherlock paid the driver, staring at the front door and hoping she didn’t look as petrified as she felt.

It wasn’t just the fact that she and Sherlock were officially embarking on a (committed, exclusive) relationship; no, it was the fact that she was coming face-to-face with three people she’d just spent the last two years _lying_ to.

She’d pretended to grieve for Sherlock, when all she’d really been doing was mourning his need to place himself in harm’s way in order to save his friends, the people he cared for. She’d listened to Mrs. Hudson sobbing quietly at the graveside ceremony, watched John Watson leaning heavily on his cane, his face stoic but his pain plainly etched in the new lines around his mouth and eyes, and felt her heart ache when he and Lestrade nearly came to blows over his part in Sherlock’s downfall – the fact that he’d been proven innocent of the charges that he’d been implicated in even before the funeral hadn’t helped, not one bit.

She’d seen them on and off over the past two years, Lestrade in a professional capacity, John Watson whenever he needed a friendly shoulder to – well, not exactly cry on, but certainly when he needed a friendly face over a few pints. He’d even propositioned her once, although she’d never told Sherlock – and never would. John had been so incredibly drunk at the time that she doubted he even remembered it. He’d certainly never mentioned it afterwards, not even to apologize, so she assumed he was either too embarrassed or had, indeed, been too drunk to remember.

Either way, it was done, it was over with, just like all the lies she’d been forced to tell – well, not tell so much as refrain from telling. Lies of omission were her biggest sin, once Sherlock’s “body” had been safely bundled off to the funeral home and his very much alive self (although slightly the worse for wear) had been removed to her tiny flat.

After that, after he’d disappeared through her parlor window and down the fire escape, it had all been “Yes, it’s awful” and “No, I don’t believe it, he’s brilliant and always has been” and “Of course I miss him, too” and similar platitudes. None of them lies, but all of them burning her on the inside with guilt and shame; she knew he was alive, no one else did (well, except for Mycroft, she knew that now and had suspected it at the time but really, that didn’t help at all), and she was a horrible, horrible person for keeping such an enormous secret…

“No you’re not.”

Sherlock’s voice, sharp and annoyed and very close to her ear, made her jump. She stifled a yelp before swiveling her head up so she could glare at him. “Yes I am,” she hissed, not bothering to ask how he’d known what she was thinking – or to even confirm that he was, indeed responding to what must have been her obvious thoughts. “I’ve lied to these people, kept things from them, pretended to grieve your ‘death’ – how can they _not_ hate me? I hate myself for it,” she blurted out.

Sherlock went very still, processing her words, no doubt, and she flushed under his continued regard. “You only did it because I asked you to,” he finally said, his voice curiously flat and unemotional. “If you should hate anyone, it should be me.”

Oh, she’d gone and screwed things up, hadn’t she. She’d made him feel…well, not necessarily guilty, she supposed, but something like that, and that hadn’t been her intent at all. Not that she had anything as organized as “intent” when she spoke; impulse and her own guilt had motivated her, removed the filter from her tongue and allowed her to say what was in her mind instead of keeping it as much to herself as she could manage when Sherlock Holmes was involved. “I don’t hate you, you know that,” she finally said as she forced herself to once again meet his eyes.

He continued to examine her, some unreadable emotion flaring and quickly vanishing in his eyes as he said, very softly: “But you should. For so many reasons. I am…grateful…that you do not.”

She stood up on tiptoes and kissed him, a quick peck, nothing passionate about it, but nothing that could be misconstrued as simply “friendly” by anyone watching – or by Sherlock himself. “I love you,” she said simply. “You know it, I know it, so there’s no point in not saying it. Now.” She smiled brightly at him, her mood inexplicably lightened even though they’d both just waded into some rather heavy emotional waters. “Let’s go see who figures things out first, shall we?”

oOo

Molly had heard the saying "so quiet you could hear a pin drop" but had never actually been confronted with a situation where it applied.

Until tonight. As she and Sherlock entered the back room he'd reserved for his "Welcome Home" dinner (not that he'd ever characterize it that way, of course, even if that was exactly what it was), all heads turned toward them – Greg Lestrade, John Watson, Mrs. Hudson ( _Martha, her name was Martha, right?_ ), and John's new girlfriend, Mary – and all conversation ceased.

She tried to tell herself it was just because, although they'd all met with Sherlock individually, this was the first time they were seeing him as a group. Tried, and failed. Because she knew exactly why everyone was staring; Not only had she and Sherlock clearly arrived at the same time, together, but he was escorting her into the room with his hand placed firmly in the small of her back.

So much for leaving it up to her to decide if she wanted to satisfy their curiosity or not. She should have known Sherlock couldn't just leave it be.

His scowl as he noticed that the only two remaining chairs were at opposite ends of the table didn’t help matters. Face flaming, she removed herself from his side and marched to the one next to Mrs. Hudson, sat down, and offered her brightest smile to the gathering. “Hullo! Sorry we’re late, Sherlock didn’t, um, didn’t tell me we were all meeting until last minute. So, um, it’s my fault, sort of, I wasn’t ready…Sorry!”

She ducked her head, still too embarrassed to meet anyone’s eyes, watching from beneath her lashes as Sherlock made his silent, stony-faced way to the other chair, the one between Greg Lestrade and Mary Morstan, and sat down.

Mrs. Hudson, bless her heart, was the first to break the silence following Molly’s outburst. Reaching over, she patted Molly’s hand consolingly and said: “That’s all right dear, we all know how Sherlock can be. He probably assumed you’d deduce this dinner by the fact that he just showed up on your doorstep and told you to get ready – um, that is what happened, isn’t it?”

Molly felt less like blessing the older woman now and more like sinking down through the floor at her gentle probing. But then, Sherlock had already told her she’d been the one to flat-out ask if the two of them had had sex, so obviously she wasn’t shy. “Something like that,” was all she muttered in response as she fumbled for a menu.

“We’re not angry with you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Mrs. Hudson continued, squeezing Molly’s hand before releasing it to pick up her own menu. “We understand why Sherlock had to fake his death; my goodness, I can tell you I’m relieved to know he had someone he could trust to help him with it! It must have been quite trying for you, keeping such a dangerous secret for so long.”

She was back to blessing the other woman again, as the others murmured their agreement. John grinned at her when she gathered her courage enough to dart a glance at him, and she managed a weak smile in return. Perhaps dinner wouldn’t be so bad after all…

“So.” Molly started as Greg spoke, leaning forward with great deliberation and planting his elbows on the table. The twinkle in his eye did nothing to calm her suddenly pounding heart; whatever he was about to say or ask wasn’t going to be something she wanted to hear…or answer, she just knew it…

“Kindly leave off baiting Molly,” Sherlock ground out, turning his glare on Greg. “She feels badly for her part in covering for me, she isn’t allowed to tell you what her part consisted of…”

“What, aside from the obvious, you mean?” Greg cut in, turning his grin on Sherlock, not at all discommoded by the death-glare being sent his way. The twinkle, however, had been replaced by a hard-eyed look Molly knew meant nothing good. She really, really wished Sherlock had a time machine right about now, so they could rewind and start this evening over – with her firmly declining to join them for dinner.

Barring that, a gag for the detective inspector would be nice. She shut her eyes and clenched her menu tightly in both hands as he continued speaking. “I mean, she had to pretend to cut you open and declare that yes, you’d died by jumping off the roof of St. Bart’s, that you hadn’t been drugged or shot or stabbed. Then she had to arrange for a fake body to be delivered to the funeral parlor, made up to pass for you – good job there, by the way, don’t even wanna know where the other body came from, especially since I already asked your brother and he gave me the best government non-answer I’ve ever heard in my life – and keep anyone from knowing what she’d done.” He leaned back in his chair. “Piece of cake, eh Molly?”

She felt like throwing up. All the good feelings she’d been floating on this evening vanished like the soap-bubble delusions they’d always been. They hated her, they all hated her; Greg was the only one honest enough to let her know to her face, hers and Sherlock’s, that he blamed them both for lying to them for so long. How could she have been stupid enough to believe this dinner would go well?

She started to rise to her feet, shoving her chair back, desperately fumbling for her purse, when she was stopped by Mrs. Hudson’s hand on her wrist – and by the sight of Sherlock Holmes punching Greg Lestrade soundly in the face.

“Well, that could have gone better.”

She turned her stunned gaze on John Watson, who was pulling Sherlock away from Greg and half-smiling at the sight of the other man flat on his arse. “Good thing you got us a private room, Sherlock.” Without pausing he added to Greg: “Feel better now, yeah? Got it out of your system? Was it worth it, getting Molly all upset like that?”

Lestrade had risen to his feet, rubbing his jaw and dabbing at his bleeding lip with the napkin Mary, sitting wide-eyed and silent, handed him. “Yeah, I do, a bit.” He looked over at Molly, somewhat shamefaced as he added: “Sorry, Molly, shouldn’t have taken it out on you like that.” His glare returned as he turned back to face Sherlock. “You’ve been a royal shit about this whole thing, but the one thing you did get right was asking us to take it easy on her. I’m the one who bollixed that up, that part’s definitely on me. I should have made you stay down at the Yard till I’d gotten the answers I wanted out of you. Sorry, all.”

He slumped back in his seat, his eyes firmly on the table cloth. Sherlock remained standing, as did John, although he’d cautiously released his friend when it was clear the punching was over with. For now.

Molly remained on her feet as well, frozen with indecision. Should she follow her first instinct and leave, rush out of here, find a cab and make her way back to her flat? Or should she stay, as Sherlock’s eyes seemed to be urging her to do?

After a second she sank back into her chair, placed her purse on top of her menu, folded her hands together, cleared her throat and looked around the table. “Right. So. Does anyone else have something they need to get off their chest?”

oOo

Molly never ceased to surprise him. Which was doubly astonishing, considering how he’d originally dismissed her after his initial assessment of her – competent at her job, perhaps a bit more-so than many of the other pathologists he’d worked with; eager to please, just this short of being needy (an attribute he detested); and hopelessly (or so he’d believed) infatuated with him.

Slowly, gradually, he’d learned that she was more than competent at her job, although still eager to please, at least as far as he was concerned. That what he'd originally dismissed as a somewhat pathetic desire for attention from men other than himself was actually her way of trying to get on with her life when he'd made it clear (idiotic of him) that there was not nor ever would be anything between the two of them of a romantic nature. More importantly, he'd discovered that she was completely trustworthy, utterly loyal whether he returned her affections or not – and that, somewhere along the way, he’d grown to rely on her, much as he’d come to rely on John Watson.

That he cared for her.

Then had come that astonishing afternoon in the morgue lab when she’d told him he looked sad…and suddenly stammering, foot-constantly-in-her-mouth-around-him Molly Hooper had shown herself to have a keen insight to go along with her generous nature and skill at cutting up bodies. 

Another man – an ordinary man – might not lump her finesse with a scalpel at the same level of appreciation as the insight and generosity of nature she routinely displayed, but Sherlock knew (quite without any sense of superiority or bragging) that he wasn’t an ordinary man.

An ordinary man, he’d come to realize, could never appreciate Molly Hooper the way she deserved to be appreciated. Oh, he might treat her better when it came to things like romance, remembering birthdays and anniversaries, or pretending to like the same movies and music she did, but he could never be what she actually _needed_. 

And what she needed, what made her happy, was him. It was quite a breathtaking realization, all in all. He had many faults, and could list them off alphabetically or according to how deeply irritating others found them, but Molly Hooper loved him, warts and all as the saying went.

He suspected he was capable of returning that love, and quite looked forward to seeing if his hypothesis was correct.

But right now, the only thing he needed to do was nip this infernal interrogation in the bud. He'd hoped that by taking the bull by the horns, to borrow an American expression, and simply showing up with Molly firmly by his side that the others would take the hint and consider their nosy, intrusive questions answered.

A tactical error on his part. He hadn't taken into account just how intolerably interested everyone would be in everything about him, being just back from the dead and all. He should have done as he'd promised Molly, and let her take the lead.

He would be sure to apologize to her later. In private. With a great deal of enthusiasm...

To that end, as soon as Molly asked her question, he locked gazes with first John, then Lestrade, then Mary Morstan (who looked understandably wary), then Mrs. Hudson. Who merely smiled sweetly at him before turning to Molly. “Now, dear, no one else has anything else unpleasant to say, I’m sure,” she said, once again patting the younger woman on the arm. “We all know why you did what you did, even if we don’t quite know the details as to how you did it – nor,” she added, shooting Lestrade a rather forbidding look of her own, “do we need to hear those details. We just want to know that you’re happy, that’s all.”

This time the forbidding look was aimed squarely at Sherlock, who acknowledged her rather broad hint that he’d best treat Molly right by nodding and finally sinking back into his chair. John sat down as well, and there was nothing but silence for a long minute, broken only when Angelo himself bustled into the room with baskets of fresh-baked Italian bread and butter.

Sherlock had sharp hearing, but even so he knew he was only imagining he heard Molly's sigh of relief from his end of the table. He was not, however, imagining the relieved expression on her face as she glanced at the same people he'd just used his best intimidating glare on.

He saw Lestrade looking apologetic as he raised his lager and took a large gulp. He saw Mrs. Hudson busying herself with her order as Angelo hovered by her shoulder. He saw Mary smiling at Molly and giving her a small, not-quite-surreptitious “thumbs up” from behind her napkin. He saw John...well, actually he saw the piercing look John was giving him and raised his eyebrow in mute challenge as their gazes locked. “Something on your mind, John?” he drawled.

“Sherlock,” Molly said in obvious warning, but John flashed her a grin before returning his attention to his friend. 

“Don't worry, Molls, I've got this,” he said.

Sherlock's eyebrows shot toward his hairline and he felt a small muscle in his cheek twitch in irritation – not, of course, due to jealousy. “'Molls'?” he repeated, not bothering to hide his sneer. “Ah, I see, the two of you formed some sort of rapport during my absence, how...sweet.”

He would have continued in that vein, perhaps interjecting some sort of sneering insinuation regarding John’s feelings for Molly when a glance in her direction shut him up. She was white-faced with strain, her fingers clutching her napkin so tightly her knuckles were almost as white as her face.

John, who was too busy trying to get his point across to Sherlock to notice anything else, kept going. “Yeah, we're friends, Sherlock, all of us, Molly included,” he snapped. “While you were off saving the world from Moriarty's criminal empire...”

“Untrue, he had nothing going in either South America or Antarctica,” Sherlock interjected by way of correction – and as a mild attempt to ease the tension growing between them – but John just plowed ahead, obviously determined to have his say.

“While you were off _saving the world_ ,” he repeated, his voice a bit louder this time and accompanied by an aggravated eye roll, “we were busy mourning you, you git. And Molly was one of us, in that same club, mourning your death, at least we all thought so – ”

Sherlock wasn't imagining the sharp intake of breath he heard from Molly's lips, and that was enough for him to consider punching John the way he'd just decked Lestrade.

Fortunately cooler heads prevailed. Mary placed her hand on John's arm, and the fists his hands had clenched into relaxed as he shot Molly a rueful, apologetic glance. “Sorry, Molls, that wasn't what I meant.” He nodded at Sherlock. “He asked us to go easy on you, but what he doesn't get is that even though the truth is out, that you always knew he was alive, you were still worried sick about him.”

It wasn't a question, but Sherlock watched her nod anyway. “I was,” she admitted. “It was really hard, pretending and lying to you all, then going home and...and not knowing if I'd hear from him or when I'd see him again...”

“You were in your own particular hell,” John concluded when she fell silent, tears pooling in her eyes. She nodded, and it was clear to even Sherlock, famously dense when it came to emotions, that she was grateful that John – that all of them, since Lestrade was nodding silent agreement and Mrs. Hudson's arm had gone around Molly's shoulder for an affectionate squeeze and even Mary had an understanding expression on her face – saw that she'd gone through exactly the same emotional turmoil the rest of them had.

Before things could descend into maudlin emotionalism, John glanced back at Sherlock and added in a deliberately provocative tone: “By the way, if you didn't want us to know that you two were involved, why tell us to take it easy on Molly in the first place? Why stroll in here and make it clear that the answer to that question was yes, you are involved?”

He offered Sherlock a challenging stare.

“Obviously I thought that you'd all take the hint and make your own deductions, thus negating the need to grill Molly about the details,” Sherlock snapped in irritated response. “Equally obviously, I overestimated the ability of you all to draw rational conclusions and show some tact.”

He made a sound very like a sniff and turned to face Molly. “I apologize, Molly, for opting for what I believed would be the most efficient and least obtrusive way of demonstrating our change in relationship. When I observed your nervousness after we exited the cab, I believed I'd found a solution that would work to both our advantages.” He sent a scathing look around the table, although he reserved the bulk of his umbrage for John and Lestrade. “I do hope you can forgive me what has been an obvious lapse in judgement.”

Before Molly could respond – if she was going to – Lestrade snorted into his lager and muttered: “Lapse of judgement – hah! Insensitive git more like it.”

“Right, that's enough, I think.”

Sherlock, who had just opened his mouth to deliver yet another scathing response to Lestrade's continuing idiocy, closed it when Molly made her declaration.

“So now everyone knows that we...Sherlock and I...” she blushed but managed not to stammer, “we're involved. With each other. But it's all just started and new and maybe it would be nice if we found something else to gossip about? Would that be all right?”

He didn't bother to try and stop the grin that spread across his face. He'd always known Molly could be firm when necessary, that she didn't always collapse into a stuttering mess, and here was proof.

Of course, it didn't change the fact that he'd essentially bungled this whole thing right from the start, starting with his behavior to Molly in the aftermath of their first – and so far, and possibly forever after if he didn’t fix this, only – sexual encounter. He’d managed to redeem himself at her flat, only to go ahead and make a greater mess of things upon their arrival at the restaurant. At least he hadn't completely ruined the evening – no, strike that. At least the _others_ hadn't completely ruined the evening, with their incessant interest in his personal life. He would claim a certain amount of culpability, but his intentions, at least, had been good.

Still, it was good to see Molly looking much less tense, grinning as she raised her menu to her face. Sherlock watched as the others did the same, then followed suit. Apparently Molly was to have the last word on the subject, which, for once (this time and only this time) was fine with him.

“Good,” he grumbled (unable to leave it after all, a fault he really would have to work on sometime). “I for one am actually hungry for a change.”

He blinked and stared as the rest of the group – Molly included – broke into laughter.

“What?” he asked, brow furrowing in continued confusion. What could possibly be so funny?

“Good to have you back, mate, and good to see you haven't changed,” was all John said. The only answer he was to receive, it appeared, so he shrugged and pretended to let it go.

He would just have to get an explanation from Molly later.


End file.
